


Side Effects

by Million_Moments



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Million_Moments/pseuds/Million_Moments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard never imagined his desire to not want a fuss would hurt her so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Side Effects

**Author's Note:**

> Any medical mistakes are my own. Dr Google is my only reliable source. This is a little darker in places, isn’t written in my usual style and deals with some sensitive issues, but it does have a few bits that are supposed to make you laugh. Trigger warnings for discussion of suicide. I suppose I have to get these things out of my system! 
> 
> It is another story that was meant to go in Unresolved but then took on a life of its own. Also, given the very different tone, I judged it should be published separately.

When Camille arrives at the scene she walks straight over to him and peers keenly into his face. He is not so oblivious to human emotions that he can’t sense her concern, but he would prefer not to be the recipient. All he wants to do is go home, have a cup of tea, and try to forget it all. If she knew that, she would probably call him _so_ English again. Instead of his desired activities, he has an afternoon of doing paperwork whilst his colleagues shoot furtive glances in his direction ahead of him. The paramedics are loading the body into the back of the ambulance. Death would be declared officially at the hospital, but both they and he knew the individual was not coming back. Everything that could be done had been done.

“What happened?” She asks, taking a step forward and still watching him carefully. He suspects that she knows already, and that she has half a mind to hug him. He is worried about how that might affect him, so takes half a step back so as to not seem encouraging of such actions.

“He just ran straight out in front of the car,” he tells her. “The driver didn’t have any hope of braking or swerving to avoid him. I did try to resuscitate him but…” He trails off, realises he can still taste the blood in his mouth.

Camille is giving him a sympathetic look, “That must have been horrible. I’m sure you did everything you could. Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m fine, it’s not the first time I’ve had to do that.” And it isn’t. He has witnessed a “one under” on the Tube and given CPR to a body pulled from the Thames after a bridge jump. He contemplates how the taste of river water was better than blood, then chides himself for being so macabre. Camille gives a small nod of understanding, but he knows she will monitor him closely for a few days. He supposes he should be touched that she cares.

 

* * *

 

 

The autopsy report comes in the next day, confirming that a massive head trauma on impact had led to instantaneous death. They also send in a suicide note found with the body, found tucked inside the man’s sock of all places. Richard isn’t there when it arrives, so it is Camille who takes him through the whole story.

“The poor man. It seems he was HIV positive, they said his…” she pauses to consult her notes, unfamiliar with the terms used. “His viral load was very high and T Cell count low enough to indicate he had developed full blown AIDS. In addition they told him he had lymphatic cancer. Said he didn’t want to die slowly in some hospital.” She shakes her head. “He didn’t stop to think about that poor driver though, he has got to live with that for the rest of his life. What about the affect it will have on him? Or you…” This last bit is added after Camille realises he is being oddly quiet. Richard thinks he is probably looking a little pale as well, he certainly feels like all the blood has drained from his face. “Are you okay?” She asks hesitantly. “Sometimes these things only really hit you a little while afterwards…” Fidel is also looking at him with concern, brings him over a glass of water, and Richard wonders just how bad he looks.

“I’m fine,” he says quickly. “It’s just very sad, that’s all.” He is relieved when she is seems to accept that explanation without question.

Meanwhile, Richard thinks about the taste of blood in his mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

He writes the relevant figures down on a post it which he slips into his jacket pocket. Then he sneaks out to go see Dr Johnston, on the pretence he is going to speak to him about the upcoming trial. That is, in fact, the reason Dr Johnston thinks he is there and the man is obviously surprised when Richard asks to see him in a more professional capacity.

For a few minutes, the conversation is rather stilted. The Doctor asks how he is and Richard replies with the standard “I’m fine” before realising that was probably his cue to explain to the Doctor why he was here. He can’t quite seem to do so, because he is worried he will be accused of making a fuss over nothing.

Dr Johnston eventually leans forward and says gently, “I heard you witnessed the suicide of that man. Seeing such a traumatic thing can sometimes have a real impact on people. You might be a police officer, and perhaps that makes you think you can just shrug this sort of thing off, but there is no shame in perhaps needing a little extra help.”

“Why does everyone think I am traumatised?” He cries out. “I’m fine, well, I mean I realise it was sad but I also realise I couldn’t have prevented it, or saved him. I’m not here for that!”

“So why are you here?” It is a good question, so Richard removes his post it note and explains his presence. When he finishes, Dr Johnston looks at him seriously – but somehow he finds this comforting. Clearly he is not overreacting after all.

“Well,” he begins. “I think you being here means you already realise there is a risk of infection. I strongly advise we start you on a Post-Exposure Prophylaxis treatment programme. It’s been shown to be very effective at reducing the likelihood of infection but we need to start it today. Treatment will continue for a month. I’m afraid we would then need to wait 12 weeks to do a blood test to confirm you are HIV free.” Johnston then explains the various pills he will have to take. Richard tries to pay attention as he talks about the various side effects, the importance of completing the full course, but he knows he is panicking. Dr Johnston takes pity on him and writes it all down, sending him off to the pharmacy with a prescription slip clutched in his hand.

The pharmacist, who like everyone else on this tiny little island knows exactly who he is, doesn’t quite manage to keep the shock off her face. He trusts her professionalism though, knows she isn’t going to tell anybody else. He is surprised when she drags him off into a little side room to talk through the drugs – telling him all the things he had already heard from Dr Johnston but failed to fully absorb.

“Now remember, it is two of the Kaletra and one of Truvada a day. If you have any questions just pop in or give me a call. Are you okay Inspector?” He looks at her blankly for a few moments and considers confessing he is actually terrified – not of getting HIV, but that the side effects will prevent him from doing his job and he won’t be able to keep this whole ugly business hidden from his colleagues. Instead, he just half nods and walks away.

 

* * *

 

 

He is grateful it is now the weekend. He has also booked Monday and Tuesday off work, all in the hope that it will give him time to get used to any side effects. Camille had constantly queried him about his plans for the weekend and his additional time off until he had snapped at her. She barely spoke a word to him for the rest of the evening, but he knew he would be forgiven by the time he returned to work. He didn’t know why, but she always seemed to forgive him even when he didn’t deserve it. He decided to speed up the process though, half muttering an apology for being grumpy as he left. She had immediately brightened and accepted it unconditionally. In that moment he had almost told her everything, but refrained because he did not want to be a burden to her. If he confessed, she would probably feel the need to check up on him over the weekend when she should be out enjoying herself with men much better company than him.

In the library, which was experimenting with opening late on Saturdays, he thinks back on that. He realises he is half hoping that she will drop in on him as she is sometimes warrant to do, if she has an excuse or not. It is a stupid thing to hope for, because he is feeling really quite rough despite only being on the drugs for a couple of days. But when he thinks about her, when he is around her, everything just seems better – and easier as well. She sometimes manages to make life seem less difficult, which is amazing considering the physical affects her closeness can have on him. When she touches him, even though it is usually only the most casual of actions, it feels like electricity shooting through him. If she is close enough that he can smell her perfume, his brain starts to get a bit foggy and he often can’t concentrate or remember what they are talking about. To make it all worse she seems perfectly oblivious to the effects she is having on him.

His heart thuds uncomfortably in his chest, another side effect he associates with Camille. Then he realises that this isn’t the sort of thudding that is also thrilling like he gets with her – this is something that feels genuinely wrong. He sits down heavily on a nearby chair, and rubs his chest. He doesn’t think he is having a cardiac arrest, but he is aware this is one of the things he should tell his doctor. But then again it _is_ the weekend and he would hate to disturb Dr Johnston unnecessarily…

“Inspector Poole?” He looks up into the concerned features of Father Charles. Is he being haunted by past cases? He considers that maybe he looks as bad as he feels and the Priest has come over to offer him the Last Rites. “Are you okay?”

“My heart…” Richard says vaguely, realises it is the wrong thing when a look of horror appears on the man’s face.

“I’ll call an Ambulance,” he says, pulling a mobile from his pocket.

“No!” He cries before Father Charles can press the final 9. “No that is the last thing I need! I am sure I’ll be fine in a minute, I think this was on the list of side effects.”

Father Charles frowns at the phrase side effects, and glances back at his phone. Since Richard doesn’t keel over he must decide not to finish making the call. Instead he offers, “Let me drive you to the hospital around the corner to get checked out. They have a walk in centre for out of hour’s appointments, you don’t need to go to A & E. You really don’t look well, I think you should get checked out just to be on the safe side.”

He agrees, firstly because it seems jolly sensible and secondly because he is a little afraid by the sensations in his chest. At triage, the nurse takes one look at him and one look at note he has written detailing his current medication and he finds himself checked into a cardiac ward and attached to machines that do nothing to reduce his heart rate. A nurse comes in and asks him if there is anyone she can call, and he realises that Father Charles had been waiting for him when he had been taken into triage and may still be there. He supposes he owes the man a little bit of an explanation, and it would be polite to offer his thanks for driving him here.

He gives the nurse his request, and she looks at him sympathetically and pats his hand in a reassuring manner. He realises she probably thinks he is afraid for his immortal soul or something, wants to make his final confession. “Of course Sir,” she tells him gently.

Father Charles, when he arrives, hesitates in the doorway and Richard concludes he probably feels as awkward as he does. “Are you okay?” he asks eventually, walking in and taking the seat next to the bed.

“Yes, as I mentioned one of the side effects of some medication I have to take can be an irregular heart rhythm.”

“The antiretrovirals,” he states. Richard shoots him a querying look. Father Charles gives a small shrug, “The thing about being a Priest is, people tell you things they shouldn’t because they assume you won’t tell anybody else. That, of course, only applies to the confessional. Otherwise I just use my discretion to decide what to do with the information based on what I think is best for the subject in question.” Richard nods whilst making a mental note for the future that Priests may make good criminal informants. Father Charles has another question for him, “Have you been recently diagnosed?” There is no judgement in his tone.

“Oh no, I was, well, I gave CPR to somebody who was HIV positive and accidentally swallowed some blood. The treatment is to try and prevent infection,” he explains.

“It must be difficult,” Father Charles says, choosing his words carefully. “Not knowing if you could get infected or not. I think I would be quite scared.” The last statement is clearly intended to be an invitation to get him to open up and confess all his fears.

Richard ignores it, looks away and then, clearing his throat, announces, “I just wanted to thank you for driving me here. They’ve explained these machines and things are mostly just precautionary so I am sure I will be fine.”

“You don’t want me to call anybody?” despite his hesitancy to enter early, it now seems Father Charles is rather reluctant to leave. Richard shakes his head. “I’m perfectly willing to stay for a while Richard,” the use of his first name rattles him, the attention is making him uncomfortable. “It’s important to talk about these things, not to bottle stuff up…”

“I’m fine, really,” he says firmly. “Though perhaps a little tired. They told me to get some rest, you know, so…”

“Of course!” Father Charles says as he rises, though he looks unconvinced. “I hope you feel better soon, Inspector.”

 

* * *

 

 

Richard closes his eyes, but knows he is unlikely to sleep. Not whilst he is being forced to listen to his own, irregular heartbeat. He had been offered dinner but felt too nauseous to eat, his stomach was still churning now. His eyes snap back open in surprise when a weight hits him forcefully on the chest. He looks down and realises it is a bag of grapes. When he looks towards the doorway, he finds a furious looking Camille standing there.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, completely baffled as to how she located him.

“Father Charles called me. Though it should have been _you_ who called me!” She stalks across the room and throws herself into the chair that had held the man who betrayed him. Well, perhaps betray was a strong word, as the Priest himself had pointed out – confidentiality only applied to the Sacrament of Confession itself. It appeared what Father Charles judged to be best for Richard was to call Camille, though perhaps he would have refrained if he had known she would assault him with fruit.

Richard is still trying to process everything when Camille mutters, “I’m sorry.”

“Well it didn’t exactly hurt,” he says, gesturing to the bag of grapes that still lays on his chest because he is not sure what else to do with it.

“Not for throwing the grapes, you idiot! That you deserve!” She explodes, leaving him bewildered again. Given how angry she is he should probably be more afraid – his heart should be doing the sort of thing that sets off alarms on at least one of these machines. Yet, in spite of her fury, he is feeling calmer – he is, without a doubt, relieved that she knows, and that she is here.

However, he is unable to keep the annoyance out of his tone as he snaps back, “Then what are you bloody sorry for?” Bickering is just how they communicate.

“Sorry I met you for one thing!” His heart skips a beat and he doesn’t think that particular one is a side effect of the drugs. She sees his discomfort and winces. “I don’t mean that,” she says hurriedly. He flaps a hand dismissively. “I’m sorry for not thinking about it, and realising. I’m a detective for goodness sake, I should have realised that there was a risk to you because you gave CPR – been a bit more sensitive when I announced he was HIV positive.” She pauses, looking genuinely ashamed, even though Richard feels no animosity towards her whatsoever. He is about to try and find a way to express just that when she starts to speak again, “However, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have told me! And I don’t mean when you got checked into the hospital either, I mean you should have told me straight away, as soon as you realised!”

“Well I, um, I didn’t want to bother you with it all,” he offers lamely and receives a glare for his trouble.

“You didn’t want to…? ARGH! Richard, for God’s sake, I am your partner _and_ your friend. You can be as English and reserved as you like but I _do_ care about you, about what happens to you. If you don’t want to tell me every detail of how you spent your Saturday, well, that is fine but Richard – this is something you share!” There are, to his horror, tears in her eyes. He knows he has to say something.

“You care about me?” He surprises himself by asking. It is not what he meant to say at all, but it is what his brain had latched on to.

Camille looks equally surprised by his question, and then her look turns tender. She reaches forward and takes his hand and he manages to resist the urge to pull away. “Of course I do,” she says sincerely. “Is one of the side effects of those drugs stupidity?”

“No,” he says with a small smile. “I think that is all me.” And the side effects of that particular condition are her tears, something he never wants to be responsible for again. There is a pause where all he can do is concentrate on the feeling of her hand holding his. He isn’t sure why she hasn’t let go yet. To fill the oh-so profound feeling silence he pipes up, “Next time I find myself in a situation where I might have been exposed to a pathogen I promise I’ll tell you.” She rolls her eyes, and he realises he was interpreting the message she was trying to give him a little too literally.

“Richard I want you to tell me _all_ of the important things, irrespective of if they involve pathogens or not.”

“I see,” he says, feeling terribly awkward. “Um, how will I know if it is important or not?”

“If it is important to you, it is important to me.”

Camille smiles warmly at him and he can’t help but return it. Before he can lose his courage, he blurts out, “You should do the same!”

She looks confused, “I’m sorry.”

“You should, um, I mean, if you want you can tell me all the things that are important to you too. Because we’re partners, and, um, friends.”

“Richard,” she says gently. “Richard, I already do.”

He is embarrassed by her admission and feels the need to break the tension that has sprung up between them, “Then you must think goats are really important, because you are _always_ going on about them!”

She laughs, which was of course his aim. He smiles, feeling a little proud he can amuse her so, and she gives him a look full of warmth and affection and has the effect of filling him with hope. Hope that perhaps when she says she cares, it might be in the same way he cares about her.

“How are you feeling?” She asks, causing him to realise he has been staring at her.

“Um, tired.” It’s not a lie this time, he really is fatigued and wants nothing more than to sleep. Well, there were things he did want more, but he didn’t have the energy for them.

“You should get some rest. I’ll come by tomorrow to check on you.”

“You don’t have to…” he begins, but stops when she raises an eyebrow. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

 

On Sunday, she convinces him it is a good idea to tell Fidel, Dwayne, the Commissioner _and_ her mother, of all people. He realises she is being over-protective, that she wants as many people as possible keeping an eye on him. He knows that he has to tell the Commissioner really, in case the damn drugs continue to interfere in his duties. He supposes for the same reason Dwayne and Fidel should know, though asks her if she would do the telling because he is sure he will find all the concern too embarrassing. He makes it absolutely clear he doesn’t want them hovering about like when he had that fever, he wasn’t an invalid. He really doesn’t see any reason why Catherine should be told, especially since it is giving him images of being force fed soup he doesn’t want and generally being fussed over, but he knows it will be hard for Camille to keep it from her so reluctantly agrees.

When he returns to work she asks how he is and he really wants to just say ‘fine’ but is worried she might explode again and accuse him of hiding things. “Alright,” he says instead. Adding, “Not much of an appetite.”

“I thought that might be the case.” She reaches into her bag and passes him a small amber bottle. He squints at the label (he really needs to get his eyes tested) and realises it is some sort of herbal ginger extract. “I read online that ginger is good at reducing nausea” she announces proudly.

“Actually, there is insufficient clinical evidence that ginger an effective anti-emetic,” he tells her. She looks crestfallen, so despite his better judgement, his continues, “But people have been using it for thousands of years so who needs scientific studies…”

He manages to swallow one with the water she provides without grimacing. It is likely to be a placebo, but he does feel better for the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 

 

Over the next month, he practises telling her things that are important. He tells her that he has no idea what do get his Mother for her 65th Birthday, as he would quite like it to be something special. She spends a few hours questioning him closely about his Mum, and then over one Saturday they set out and find her something together. On the day, his mother calls to thank him and excitedly asks if he happens to have a girlfriend. This causes him to come to the conclusion that his previous gifts must have been pretty rubbish, if she is instantly able to spot the influence of a woman in his life. He tells her that no, he does not, but confesses he received advise from a friend. His mother jokes he should consider marrying her. Richard tells Camille that she loved the present, but misses out that last bit.

He pays more attention, and is able to spot when she is telling him things that are important to her. The number of heart felt conversations they are having has certainly sky rocketed. He tells her how his Mum was left unable to have more children after his birth went wrong, and that he felt responsible that she was never able to have the daughter he knows she so desperately wanted. Camille tells him about how she once used the Police computer to search for her father, discovered he had remarried and had two more children – her siblings. Deep down, she wants to meet them, but isn’t sure they even know she exists. She also worries Catherine will think she is rejecting her in some way – saying that she alone is not family enough. He can’t think of anything appropriate or comforting to say, and tells her so, but she just smiles softly and reassures him that the fact he listened is the important bit.

 

* * *

 

 

A few days after he has finished the course, when he is finally feeling normal again, Camille insists on taking him out to dinner. This, she claims, is because he can finally appreciate food again. And thus he can start putting on some of the weight he has lost over the month. He actually thinks that he would rather it stay off. The heat on the damn island had led to decreased activity and an increased waistband, and suits that were starting to be too tight now actually fit properly. However, Camille has convinced her Mother to make him Roast Beef again, and it is not an offer he is able to turn down.

“When do you have the blood test?” Camille asks.

“3 months,” he tells her as he happily covers everything on his plate with gravy.

“God, that is so long! Why do you have to wait all that time?”

“Because the drugs would have reduced any virus in my blood, so it is possible that they wouldn’t be able to detect it. The 12 weeks gives it time to replicate up to detectable levels.” She doesn’t respond, and when he looks up he realises she is upset. “What is it?”

“I suppose I haven’t really considered the fact it might not work before,” she tell him. “You aren’t going to throw yourself in front of a car if it’s positive?”

“Camille!” He cries. “Don’t be ridiculous. I would never do that. I’d shoot myself, much quicker.”

It’s meant to be a joke, a really macabre one but a joke none-the-less. It seems he is suffering from the stupidity condition again, despite all recent signs of recovery, because she looks stricken at his answer. He puts down his knife and fork and tells her seriously, “I don’t mean that. With the right drugs I could have years of good health ahead of me. Also, I, um, you know, I have things to live for.” He hopes she realises that she is very much one of those things, because he isn’t brave enough to say it directly. It all feels a bit intent, so he jokes, “Your Mother’s Yorkshire puddings for one thing!”

 

* * *

 

 

On the day of the test, she offers to come with him. “No, I’m fine, I don’t need my hand held or anything. I don’t like needles, but then who does?”

“I knew a woman who liked needles once,” Dwayne pipes up. “She was into some pretty _freaky_ things. _And_ she was a nurse.”

This gives him reason to pause, “Well, thank you for that image Dwayne. I can only pray that she will not be _my_ nurse.”

“I can drive you there,” Camille offers.

“It’s really close, I’m going to walk.”

“I can walk you there?” She is clearly desperate to be useful to him in some way, which is touching really, so he accepts her offer of company.

“Well they tell you the results today?” She asks as they walk together.

“No, it needs to go off to the hospital in Guadeloupe, so it’ll be a couple of days.” She huffs angrily, and he gives her a small smile. He feels Camille’s inability to understand the limitations of diagnostics stems not from a lack of intelligence, which she has in abundance, but from her desperate desire to have this whole nasty episode over and done with.

They pause outside of the surgery. “Good luck doesn’t quite feel like the right thing to say,” she admits.

“Well, I know what you mean.”

“Good,” she says. “I’m glad.”

 

* * *

 

 

When he gets home, she is waiting for him on the porch. “What is it?” He asks, assuming there has been a murder or some other crime that needs his attention.

“I want to tell you something,” she says, which is pretty ambiguous. He merely looks at her to indicate she should elaborate. “I want to tell you that it won’t make a difference.”

He still doesn’t know what she is talking about, “What won’t make a difference?”

“The results,” she explains. “No matter what they are, it won’t change how I feel about you. I’ll still care about you.”

“Oh Camille, I never thought it would. I don’t think any of you are the sort of people who would just drop me if the result is positive. I know I can be a bit pessimistic but you don’t have to worry about that.”

“That’s not what I meant!” She looks frustrated, but he thinks that it is with herself on this occasion and not him.

“Right,” he says. After a pause he continues, “I’m sorry you are going to have to tell me what you do mean, because I simply don’t know.”

“Richard, Richard, I, uh,” he has never seen her so nervous. “Richard, I love you. I mean, I’m _in_ love with you. I want to tell you now because no matter what is in that envelope you get from the hospital, it is a fact and it will not change.”

“Camille, I…” He can’t think of what to say. He loves her back, of course he does, and it is because of that he would never burden her with himself. And, deep down, he thinks that she may very well change her mind if the result is positive. He knows she wants children, and he wants her to have a normal relationship, and to be happy. Even if that means he has to give her up. So he can’t tell her, not now, because he won’t be able to let her go once he has.

“You don’t believe me,” she says flatly.

“I believe you think that now, but you can’t possibly know how you’ll feel at the time,” he explains.

“Yes, _I_ can,” she tells him firmly. He doesn’t have time to form a reply, because she takes three strides across the porch and presses her mouth to his. He can’t help himself, he kisses her back. She smiles at his participation, pulls him closer and kisses him until he can’t remember the reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this.

“Come on,” she says, pulling back and tugging by the hand into the house.

He holds back though once he realises her intentions, “Camille we shouldn’t…”

“Shh!” She tells him, actually clapping a hand over his mouth. “Yes we can. _Because it’s not going to make a difference_.” He’s only a man, a man in love at that, so he lets her lead him to the bed.

 

* * *

 

 

The experience leaves him feeling satisfied and pleasantly tired. Camille is still full of energy, head laying on his shoulder she is chattering away about anything and everything. She has somehow become energised by the whole experience whilst all he really wants is a nice nap. It makes him feel old, and he tells her so.

“Well, it’s like any form of exercise. The more you do it, the easier it becomes and the longer you are able to go for…” He frowns, thinking this is a comment on the duration of their activities, but she is able to read his thoughts and slaps him on the chest. “That’s not what I meant. It was wonderful Richard, perfect even.”

He is sure that last comment is an exaggeration, but still feels pleased, “Well I am glad you said the results won’t make a difference, because I don’t think I could go the rest of my life without doing that again.”

She gives a small laugh, snuggles back down and says, “They are going to be negative. I know they are. Lynette came up to me…”

“Lynette?” He interrupts. “The woman who claims she is psychic?”

“Yes,” Camille says, in a tone of voice that implies his chances of repeating the whole sex thing would be better if he shut the hell up. “She does know things, Richard. And she never asks for money either, so you can’t claim she is some con artist. Anyway, she told me that negativity was going to bring me happiness – but she didn’t know what that meant. It can only refer to your test results.” After a pause, she adds, “Though I suppose she could have meant you in general, you _are_ very pessimistic.”

“Hey!” he protests. “I’ve been better!”

“Yes, you have.” She leans in and kisses him softly. He trails his hands up and down her body and decides that maybe he isn’t as tired as he thought…

 

* * *

 

 

Three days later he and Camille have their first fight. Well, it their first fight as a couple, anyway. Richard feels it is a coincidence, but Camille is convinced that the negative result meant Lynette _really_ does have psychic powers. Luckily, her faith in the unscientific could never change the way he feels about her. 

 


End file.
